


maybe i'll stay

by foxwatson



Category: Once Upon A Time In Hollywood (2019)
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, M/M, Set after the movie, mostly - Freeform, rick and cliff talk to each other! with words!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:20:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24427882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxwatson/pseuds/foxwatson
Summary: After all that shit with the hippies, Cliff thinks about his friendship with Rick, and how they've gotten where they got - with Rick, actually bringing him bagels to the hospital. Maybe the hippie incident actually shook some things loose for both of them.
Relationships: Cliff Booth/Rick Dalton
Comments: 20
Kudos: 94





	maybe i'll stay

**Author's Note:**

> i'm really just. showing up late in the middle of quarantine with a fic LITERALLY NO ONE asked for but. anyways here, i wrote a thing!
> 
> title is technically taken from ramblin' gamblin' man by bob seger, off the official movie soundtrack. i also listened to a bunch of orville peck and the cactus blossoms while writing this though, for tone.

When Cliff wakes up, it’s to bright white walls and fluorescent light and the fact that the inside of his mouth tastes like shit. He’s not really in pain - a little uncomfortable maybe, but mostly floaty. Still, just the taste in his mouth and how dry it is makes him groan as he opens his eyes and tries to sit up. His head hurts, too - but he and Rick got drunk last night, so that tracks.

It’s not that he’s forgotten the hippies and the hospital and all the other shit - it’s just hard to believe it all really happened as it comes trickling back until he looks down and presses his fingers against his hip through the hospital gown. He can feel the stitches there, remembers cracking jokes to the EMTs in the ambulance, to the nurse as she stitched him up and commented on how this would just join all his other scars.

There’s voices in the room, but he finally looks around and finds it’s just the television.

He has no fucking clue what time it is - has no idea how long he’s been asleep, if it’s day or night or any other fucking thing.

After a couple of failed attempts, he adjusts his bed and sits up enough to see the television - and goddamn if it isn’t an old episode of Bounty Law.

It’s from one of the early seasons, before Cliff worked on the show, but he’s seen all those episodes, too. Watched them on the little tv in his trailer or on reels at Rick’s place when Rick got all nostalgic and jaded and said he’d never do another good thing in his life.

Cliff watches Jake Cahill ride into town on a horse and he can’t help but smile. Rick never could ride a fucking horse and look comfortable. He always sat too stiff, too nervous he’d get bucked - because he had, more than his fair share of times. You put a nervous man on a nervous horse, it’s a fucking recipe for disaster.

The thing about Bounty Law is that most of the episodes tended to be the same. They had a formula that way. Jake gets a bounty, kills ‘em, then ends up in some kind of struggle to get paid for it. Always getting himself into trouble, that Jake Cahill - sort of like somebody else Cliff knows.

When the nurse sticks her head in to check on him, Cliff expects he’ll just ask for a glass of water and maybe get some more pain meds for his trouble.

The last fucking thing he ever expected was for her to say, “Oh, Mr. Booth! You’re awake. You have a visitor waiting in the lobby, should I let him back now? He’s been out there pacing and smoking for a while.”

There’s only one person in the world that’d actually visit Cliff in the hospital - only the thing is that Cliff didn’t really think he would either.

“Yeah, sure, let him on back,” Cliff says.

And sure enough, Rick fucking Dalton walks through the door with a paper bag from some bagel place in his hand and a cigarette still clenched in his teeth.

“Hey, old buddy, I got - I got the bagels like you asked but I wasn’t - I didn’t fucking know where you wanted ‘em from so I just went to the nearest place I hope that’s - hope they’re alright."

While it is true that Cliff asked for bagels, it was mostly a joke.

But here Rick is, with the fucking bagels.

Cliff just sits there as Rick curses and puts out his cigarette, and then looks up at the television.

“Oh - aw, shit, they really put this thing on old reruns of Bounty Law? I think - I oughta think you been through enough in the past day to not have to put up with that, let me - let me see if I can get ‘em to change it.”

“No,” Cliff says, maybe faster than he should. “No, that’s alright, if you can stand it, don’t worry about it. Just turn down the volume or something and bring those bagels over here, partner.”

Rick smiles, then, all big and genuine - and if some people’s smiles make them look young, Rick’s does the opposite. It brings every line around his eyes into stark relief, every feature of his face that’s started to make him self-conscious, but Cliff just basks in it. He’s the only one that gets to see that face - Well.

Except Francesca.

But it doesn’t change that in the moment, Rick’s face lights up more than the sun, and he actually brought Cliff fucking bagels, that’s all that matters.

Cliff’s bed has one of those little trays, and he pulls it over to eat his bagel sandwich on it so he doesn’t get crumbs in the hospital bed. Rick sits in the chair closest to the bed and watches him eat, fidgeting mostly, picking the sesame seeds off his bagel.

“Something the matter?” Cliff asks, in between bites.

Rick shakes his head and pats Cliff’s leg - surprisingly high on the thigh actually, but Cliff is pretty sure it’s an accident. “N-no, old buddy, sorry, just - no I’m fine, I’m alright. I should be asking about you anyways! How’s the - how’s the hip, the stitches and everything, that all go alright? Does it hurt or anything?”

Cliff chews, and swallows, and shakes his head. “No. No, not especially. These meds get the job done for the pain.”

Rick laughs, just a hint of a chuckle. “Yeah, I bet - I bet so. Well I’m glad they got you fixed up so good.”

It feels like the place where Rick should beg off, put his sunglasses on and head out, leaving the rest of the bagels behind. Instead, he just sighs and turns back to the television, watching the old episode of Bounty Law play out now that there’s no more sound.

Cliff finishes his bagel, and they just sit there in the quiet, watching together.

Finally Rick breaks the silence again. “You know I really - really did think for a while there that show would be the last good thing I ever did. But I don’t think it was.”

“You feeling better about the Italian movies?”

Rick turns to him, frowning, and seems to realize something. Another grin breaks out on his face. “Shit! I didn’t even - Cliff I didn’t even tell you what fucking happened after you left last night. You wouldn’t believe. So, so there I am standing out in the middle of the goddamn street, watching you get hauled away, when Jay - Jay fucking Sebring, Sharon’s, Sharon’s ex-fiance who lives over there comes down to the gate and asks me - me! - what happened. So I told him, I told him about the fucking hippies and he gets Sharon on the fucking intercom and they ask me up for a drink. So I bet - I just bet I’ve got a shot at the next Polanski movie.”

Cliff smiles. It’s probably a little dopey, with the pain meds and all, but he doubts Rick’s gonna catch it. “Well I just bet you do. Good job.”

“And I told them - I told them you were there, too, they wanna meet you, too, so the next time there’s a party you’re invited.”

If you’d asked Cliff any time in the last six months, he would have said that any sting of Rick not even trying to get him on the Lancer set had been eased by all those European productions that Rick didn’t have to ask him to come along for. Even the fact that Rick had essentially fired him didn’t change the fact that any concern or doubt Cliff had about Rick maybe being ashamed to be associated with him had disappeared in the face of their six month European film tour.

But now, here, in the hospital bed, it soothes wounds Cliff didn’t even realize were there to have Rick invite him to a party at Polanski’s - to yank Cliff right along with him into the hottest circle in 1969 Hollywood.

“I appreciate that, partner.”

“Well - well, fuck, Cliff, it’s the least I could do after you - you and Brandy saved my life and Francesca’s and fucking everybody’s.”

Now that she’s come up, Cliff feels obligated to ask - so he grits his teeth and soldiers on. “How is Francesca?”

Only - Rick shakes his head, and Cliff knows right away what happened. Before he can brace himself for the crying jag, though, or the breakdown he would have thought’d be inevitable, Rick just sighs and starts talking. “She left this morning. Says - says she’s gonna g-go back to Italy, got herself a hotel and I don’t - I can’t blame her, really, after last night, I doubt I’d wanna stay either after a fucking mess like that.”

“You gonna go with her?” Cliff asks, not really sure how to react to this strangely resigned Rick.

Rick looks at him like he’s grown another head. “Back to fucking Italy? Are you - no, Cliff, Jesus fucking Christ, six months was enough, and anyways she - we’re gonna get the marriage annulled, she thinks we can do that cause - just cause of the situation not cause - well it’s not, it doesn’t matter anyways. Point being she’s gonna go back and she won’t have to worry about it and neither will we.”

The we is what catches Cliff off guard. It shouldn’t - for the past few years since Rick got his license taken away it’s been Rick and Cliff as a package deal day in and day out. Even before that, up until The Green Hornet incident, wherever Rick went, Cliff went too. So sure, it makes sense to talk about it like that, like the two of them are in it together, because Cliff could probably count on his fingers the number of times they’ve done anything separately since they met. Then again - Rick just got fucking married and thought he was gonna fire Cliff, but somehow now they’re back to the we.

“Does this mean I’m keeping my job?” Cliff asks. It’s the simpler way to ask everything he’s thinking all at once - even if it does come out a little more pathetic than he meant it.

“Shit, Cliff, I guess - I guess so, if you still want it. My house is a goddamn mess after everything, and with Francesca going back, and me trying to go to parties at Sharon’s, I don’t - I can’t see a reason why you shouldn’t stay on the payroll, old buddy. If you want to, that is.”

Cliff chuckles, just once, and tilts his head back against the pillows, looking up at the Rick still on the screen - right in the middle of a gunfight. “I guess I got nothing else better to do.”

“All - alright, then.”

Rick’s hand lands on Cliff’s leg again, this time a little bit closer to his knee, but still above it instead of below it. It lingers, too, this time, the warmth of Rick’s palm apparent through the thin, starchy hospital bedsheet.

Cliff just closes his eyes and smiles.

* * *

The thing is, Cliff Booth didn’t kill his wife.

No, really, he didn’t. There’s just something convenient about letting a whole hell of a lot of people think you’re dangerous enough to do a thing like that, especially when your whole job involves being dangerous. He gets work on his reputation - and there are ways for that reputation to get fucked pretty fast in Hollywood.

So yes, sure, sometimes he loses a job because some asshole gets too caught up in the story, but it’s better than what might happen if they knew the truth - the whole truth, anyways.

And nobody knows the whole truth, actually, except Cliff, because the only other person who would is dead.

Yes, sure, alright, Cliff is an asshole and a real piece of shit and he’s killed people before when he was in the middle of a war - so yes, when Billie talked endless shit when she got drunk, some part of Cliff would often think, quietly,  _ God it would be so easy just to _ -

So maybe it makes sense that’s what people think. He thought about it, after all.

He didn’t mean to, though. Not even to think it. And in the end, Billie got so goddamn wasted she got up that night and stumbled on deck to spill her guts over the side of the boat and no matter how fast Cliff ran after he heard the splash and realized it didn’t sound right - she was already gone.

But nobody knows. Not really. Cliff told the cops all that, but he only didn’t go to jail because there wasn’t enough evidence to prove him guilty, not because anyone believed he was innocent. Nobody did.

Nobody except Rick fucking Dalton.

Cliff never even tried to tell Rick he didn’t do it, too afraid it would sound false to his own ears like it seemed to sound to everyone else - he didn’t have to tell Rick much of anything. He’d gotten home from the short-lived boat trip, sunburnt and dead tired, and he’d shown up at Rick’s place expecting to be fired.

Instead, Rick met him at the door with a cigarette in his mouth and practically shoved a Bloody Mary into Cliff’s hand.

“Jesus - jesus fucking Christ, Cliff, it’s just - it’s all over the goddamn news, what happened, I’m so - I’m sorry, old buddy, come in, just come in and have a drink and don’t fucking worry about it, all right? They didn’t - I know they didn’t find her, maybe she’ll wash up, and if not just - just take all the time you need, maybe get a dog or something, you’ll be all right, yeah?”

He’d grabbed Cliff’s shoulder with his free hand, then pulled him into a swift hug - and it was the first time anybody had touched him without planning to hit him in a long time. It was the first time anyone had leaned close to him without suspicion in their eyes for weeks.

If Cliff cried, he might have then. Instead, he just nodded, and patted Rick on the back. “Yeah. Thank you, partner. I’ll - you know what? Maybe I will get a dog. Just for the company.”

And a week later, he did.

Rick was the one that helped him name her Brandy.

* * *

When they leave the hospital, they leave in a cab. Cliff’s as surprised as he is grateful that Rick didn’t just try to drive himself in his Cadillac, and that he doesn’t have to try and drive it back all doped up on the pain medication they gave him.

Cliff is twice as surprised that Rick actually stayed at the hospital until he was discharged - but even if Rick had to leave for food or a smoke or to go and feed Brandy, he always came back. Maybe he just didn’t really have anywhere else to go, or anyone else to go to - but it still felt nice to have somebody there.

Now they’re in the cab, with LA flying by in the windows, looking blurry to Cliff’s slow-moving brain. There’s some old country song on the radio in the cab - it’s nothing like Cliff’s usual taste, but it reminds him of the kind of stuff that used to come crackling over the radio in Tennessee while his dad was smoking his pipe out on the front porch. It lulls him to sleep, or something close to it, his eyes closed and his cheek pressed against the cool window.

He startles into wakefulness again when the cab stops at an intersection, and he glances out the window to see it’s the same place where he first saw that hippie girl - Pussycat. That’s what her friends called her. Cliff never even found out her real name. He wonders, sort of passingly, if the police went out and raided Spahn ranch after everything that happened out at Rick’s house. He can see it in his mind’s eye, all of them hauled out in cuffs, that girl trying to spit at the cops, all of them shouting protests.

It’s probably a little too cinematic in Cliff’s head - but it’s still pretty fucking funny.

He feels a little bad for her - but she seemed like the type, anyways, who probably has parents back home who can bail her out, who came to LA out of some misplaced sense of rebellion.

Cliff lays his head all the way back, lets it hit the uncomfortable top of the backseat and just rest there. The sun is warm on his face, and it’s still a balm after all that cold fluorescence in the hospital. It’s easy to let all the bullshit out of the Spahn ranch slip his mind again. It’s behind them now, one way or another. Whether or not the cops raided the place, Cliff has a feeling he won’t ever go back.

Rick nudges against his shoulder, and the first time Cliff assumes it’s a mistake, and keeps his eyes closed and his head tilted back.

Then it happens again.

Cliff rolls his head to that side, towards Rick, and opens one eye and raises his eyebrow with it. “Can I help you something?”

“I just - just wanted to make sure you were alright. You feeling all - alright and everything? Need anything else for the pain? Cause I’ve got stuff at home I’ve got - I don’t know I have some stuff and we can pick up that prescription-”

“No- No, really, I’m alright. I feel fine. I promise.” In an attempt to reassure, Cliff reaches blindly for Rick’s leg and pats him on the knee. He means to move his hand away then, but he’s still sort of slow - and as he slides it down Rick’s leg, Rick’s hand lands on top of his, and keeps him there.

“All - alright, old buddy. If you say so.”

So the rest of the ride back, Cliff’s hand just sits there, warm between Rick’s palm and his leg, and his face still warm from the sun, and for a moment he thinks maybe he dozes off again before the cab circles the end of Cielo Drive and stops right in front of Rick’s house.

Rick pats his hand and then scoots forward to pay the driver, and Cliff’s hand falls back to his side.

He takes a moment, still seated, to try and stretch, testing the limits of his back and his side - what with his injury and the time he’s spent laid up in the hospital bed. Then he looks out the window and narrows his eyes at Rick’s house.

“Wait a second - why’re we here?”

“Well cause - sorry-” Rick gets out of the car, so Cliff takes his cue and stumbles out, too, blinking in the sun without a car window in the way. “Cause I can’t drive you anywhere, and your fucking - your car’s still here and my car’s still at the goddamn Mexican place and Brandy’s still here, too. You’re gonna have to wait to go back to your place til you can - once you can drive, then we can do all that shit but til - just until then you’re gonna have to stay here. Francesca’s all gone so you can take her room if you want it."

“Francesca’s room?” Cliff repeats stupidly, because he’s practically still half-asleep and it feels like his mouth is full of cotton.

“The fucking - the guest room, Cliff, goddamn, just come inside and just - lay down or something, have a glass of water, I don’t know, seems like you need it.”

It had never remotely crossed Cliff’s mind that Francesca would have her own bedroom. Who still did that? Who married a woman and gave her a separate bedroom? Someone who - well. Nope. Cliff’s still too doped up to even try and consider that at the moment.

He stumbles into the house and finds Brandy there, waiting patiently on the couch, her tail wagging and her mouth open in the closest thing she has to a smile.

It takes Cliff a couple of tries to click his tongue clearly enough to let her know she can get down, so instead Rick does it for him, and Brandy comes bounding over. She trots around Rick’s legs first, then jumps up on Cliff, and he lets her, laughing as she tries to reach his face to lick him.

“Alright, alright girl - I’m afraid I can’t get down on the floor just yet, but what do you say you just come to my room and we can catch up there?”

“You - you can go on in and lay down, I’ll bring - I can bring you some water and something for the pain, just in case you wake up.”

“Oh, you don’t have to-”

“I don’t - I know I don’t fucking have to, just let me do it anyways.”

Cliff huffs out a laugh, half knocked out of him by Brandy, who’s still jumping up and putting her paws on his chest and shoulders. “Alright, partner. Suit yourself.”

He finally manages to click his tongue and Brandy stands down, landing back on the floor. Cliff finds his way to the guest room and strips down to his boxers before he climbs into bed and pats the spot next to him, encouraging Brandy to climb up.

She curls up beside him, and still sun-warm, between one breath and the next, he falls asleep.

* * *

Maybe there were a lot of reasons that Cliff never really told the story of how he and Rick met, but the biggest one that he’d tell anybody who asked was just that it was fucking boring as all hell. You’d think with a big personality like Rick, there’d be some big to-do about the whole thing, that Rick fell off a horse or Cliff saved his life or one of ‘em punched the other one in the face.

Instead, it was a simple story, old as history.

Cliff got hired when Rick’s old stunt double left - he was around the Screen Gems lot every day, doing stunt work and construction jobs, whatever anybody needed. Then one day they asked for a lineup of stuntmen for Bounty Law, and Cliff was the best height and build match for Rick.

He didn’t meet Rick til he was hired - and they got introduced, shook hands, and right away they liked each other.

It wasn’t just that Rick was all charming Hollywood golden boy - he is, and he can make just about anybody like him on first sight. It’s how he gets work. But that wasn’t what got Cliff - it was the nerves around the edges, the signal that there was something really going on in his head, that he wasn’t just some big-name star. He looked a little awkward. A little self-conscious. Like he didn’t know where to put his hands when he was done with them, even though he was one of the biggest stars on television.

“You my new stunt double then?” Rick asked - and immediately Cliff noticed the accent.

He smiled. “That’s me. Cliff Booth.”

“Rick Dalton. You’re - you sound like you’re from out east-”

“I grew up in Tennessee. You?”

“Missouri. I know no - nobody in LA is ever from fucking LA, but it’s - it sure is nice to meet somone else who’s really not fucking from here. You know what I mean?”

Cliff had grinned and shoved his hands in his pockets. “You know I think I just might.”

“I think this - this is gonna work out just great, Cliff. It’s real good to meet you.”

“Good to meet you, too, Mr. Dalton.”

“Oh please, just - just call me Rick. Nobody from Tennessee needs to call me fucking Mr. Dalton - makes me sound like I’m fucking 50 anyways.”

Cliff laughed, and Rick smiled, and that was really all she wrote.

* * *

Cliff wakes up in a dark room, his mouth all fuzzy again. He squints his eyes open and fumbles around in the dark for a minute before he realizes he’s still at Rick’s. His hand nudges against Brandy’s head, where she’s still curled up on the bed with him, and he pats her once, absentmindedly, before he sits up.

There’s a blanket over him, and water and painkillers on the bedside table. It all must have been Rick - it’s unsettling having their roles reversed like this. Having Rick have to take care of him for once and somehow, against all odds, doing a pretty decent job of it.

Given, Cliff’s not very hard to take care of - he and Brandy have a lot in common that way.

He scrubs a hand over his face, and picks up the water. He ends up chugging the whole glass - but for the moment, he skips the painkillers. He’s not in pain yet, so it’s not like he needs them.

Once he’s stumbled into the bathroom, there’s finally a window, and he realizes it’s still the middle of the night. Maybe edging towards dawn, but it’s dark as all hell outside. He looks at himself in the mirror. He’s really not too banged up, considering everything that happened - and the stitches don’t look bad at all. Nice and neat. It should heal up pretty nicely.

He’s grateful, suddenly, that Rick didn’t get hurt. It’s not like Rick’s never gotten hurt before - but he doesn’t take injury well. It means he can’t go out, can’t drink on his meds, and he gets cranky and dark and acts like he’ll never recover, which just makes the whole process slower. Cliff’s fine getting hurt because he’s used to it. Rick will never be used to it.

Some people might consider that an insult - but Cliff doesn’t mind. It’s why he has a job. It’s why he has a purpose, trailing around behind Rick everywhere. It’s just a fact, as far as Cliff is concerned, and it comes with the whole Rick Dalton package - and it’s a package that for better or worse, Cliff is just a little bit too fond of.

It’s only once Cliff wanders into the kitchen that he realizes why the light was quite so weird - it’s raining. Actually, honest to God, raining in LA.

He walks over to the kitchen window and laughs to himself, watching the drops land in the pool.

The weather had been so hot and heavy that night with the hippies - maybe it all makes sense. It feels symbolic, in a kind of way, the rain washing away the remnants of burnt flesh and shit that was probably still stuck to the concrete outside. Cliff crosses his arms and just stand there, watching. Then he closes his eyes and just listens for a little bit.

“Wh- Well hey, old buddy, what are you doin’ up?”

Rick comes wandering in, just in his robe and boxers, and Cliff turns to look at him as he comes into the kitchen.

“Woke up and didn’t know what time it was. Thought maybe I’d have some coffee or something, but then I noticed the rain.”

He points at the window, and Rick looks over, as surprised as Cliff was. “Shit. What do you know? Fucking rain - that’s - well that’ll be nice to help clean up the pool.”

Cliff laughs. “You know, I thought the same thing.”

“Well that - that’ll save you some trouble, if nothing else. Not that I - I mean you shouldn’t do anything anyways until that hip’s all healed up. Wouldn’t want you climbing around and shit until you’re feeling better.”

“I feel fine right now - and I didn’t even take those painkillers. Thanks for setting them out though.”

“It wasn’t - it wasn’t no problem or anything, I just told you - told you that I would so I did!”

Rick can’t seem to keep his hands still. He seems to almost forget the robe doesn’t have pockets, then ends up instead just crossing his arms to get them out of the way. Cliff watches the whole dance with mild amusement.

“What’re you doing up, partner?”

Shrugging, Rick steps closer to the window and looks out at the sky. “Don’t know. Think it - Well I think it must have been the rain. Unless it was a dream I don’t remember I don’t - I don’t really know.”

“Think you should try to go back to sleep?”

That makes Rick turn back around, and he leans back against the counter as he locks eyes with Cliff. “No - No, I’m alright. Not like we’ve got anywhere to be later anyways. Not right now.”

They stand there for a moment in silence, with the gentle patter of rain their only backdrop. Rick is still looking at Cliff, though, just standing there, watching him, checking him over - and it’s only in that moment that Cliff realizes he never bothered to get all the way dressed, so he’s just standing there in his boxers.

He still wouldn’t think twice about it if it weren’t for the way Rick’s looking at him.

“You said earlier you and Francesca were gonna get it annulled - why annulled? Why not just get a divorce?”

“Well just that - just that we can, and she thought it might make everything easier for both of us, since we have proof well we - I mean we both agree it’s better, and she doesn’t want any money, and neither of us wanna fight about it, we just want it done.”

“Done like it never happened.”

“Well she does, after the - you know, after what happened, and I don’t blame her. She’s got a pretty fucking good case for misrepresentation.”

“What, just cause she came to America expecting the movie star life and almost got murdered?”

Rick laughs at that, snorts a little and then ducks his head, obviously embarrassed. “ I mean it’s - it’s not exactly like she might have been promised, yeah.”

Cliff could drop it - stop right there. Normally he would. But it’s a weird hour, and they both just almost died, and Rick brough him bagels to the hospital and now just won’t leave him alone. “It have anything to do with the separate bedrooms?”

That leaves Rick blinking, obviously startled, and he turns and starts going through the cabinets, obviously searching for something, trying to busy himself. “Well she - I mean plenty of people, plenty of people don’t sleep in the same bed.”

“It’s not an accusation. I’m just asking.”

The calm in Cliff’s voice seems to soothe Rick’s nerves - as it often does. Rick turns back around, his hands falling back at his sides. “Guess it is just you, huh?” Rick sighs, and he can’t keep eye contact as he presses on. “Not - not that you want all the details or anything but it - we never - I mean I couldn’t - she was - you know she was real understanding and all, in Italy, but I think the hippies were just sort of the last straw.”

Cliff crosses his arms and leans his good hip against the fridge. “You’re saying you never slept with her. After all that?”

Rick huffs, frustrated, obviously embarrassed, and turns back around and starts pulling down glasses. “Yes, that’s - that is what I’m saying, thank you for clarifying.”

“Rick, it’s alright, it doesn’t matter-”

“It damn well does matter, Cliff! I can’t - jesus fucking Christ, I got lucky she’s just gonna fucking go back to Italy, but you know as well as I do that’s the kind of shit that gets around, and if anybody - if anybody fucking found out Rick Dalton couldn’t get it up for a woman anymore that’d be it - the end of my fucking career, of - of what’s left of it anyways.”

“For a woman?” Cliff asks, because he gets stuck there, even in the middle of a breakdown he’d normally try to talk Rick down from.

He watches as a flush spreads over Rick’s face. “That - that is not the fucking point, Cliff.”

“I mean it is a little bit, cause if it’s not - I mean if the problem is just the drinking that’s something you can fix-”

“Well it’s not! I’ve tried.”

Cliff just stands there, stuck where he was leaned up against the fridge, totally caught off guard for the first time in a long time - well, okay, except for the thing with the hippies, but this is a little bit different.

He’s known Rick for nine years, and while he’d maybe suspected from time to time, somehow he never really actually knew.

Rick starts to fidget again, with his eyes fixed firmly on the floor. “If you’re - if you’re gonna leave or some shit like that, I’ll find a way to get your car back to you, you can just - just take a cab and take Brandy and go, later, I’ll, I’ll get you some breakfast and one last paycheck somehow and you just won’t - we don’t ever have to talk about it, you don’t ever have to see me again-”

“Shit, Rick, hey, man, c’mere.” Cliff carefully pushes away from the fridge and takes a few steps towards Rick - but Rick winces back, physically cringes away, so Cliff just stops in his tracks. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“I don’t need your fucking pity, Cliff Booth.”

Cliff drops his hands back to his sides. “Who said anything about pity?”

“I did. This ain’t - it ain’t what you signed up for and you fucking know it-”

“Rick, what are you talking about? We’ve known each other for nine years, you’re my best friend. You’re the only friend I have other than Brandy, you’re the only person who believes I didn’t kill Billie, you’re not - what do you think I hang around here for? For nothing? For fun? It’s not just cause you pay me, cause the money really isn’t shit and hasn’t been for a long time.”

“Sorry I can’t pay you more,” Rick gets out, starting to cry for real. “You deserve a hell of a lot more money for - for putting up with all-”

“Partner, I’m not putting up with anything. Alright? Can we just - just c’mere.”

And then, just like he’s done a hundred times, really any time he does it and they’re not in a public parking lot, Rick leans forward and presses his face against Cliff’s shoulder, leaning there as he cries. Cliff just places his hands on Rick’s back and holds him there, gently.

“‘S alright.”

“It ain’t alright, nothing - nothing’s fucking alright, and you know it.”

“Nobody knows. I didn’t know ‘til you just told me, and I’ve known you longer than almost anybody. If Francesca says anything, we’ll say she made it up, but I really don’t think it’s gonna come to that. Everything’s gonna be fine. You just get yourself a part in the next Polanski movie, everything’ll work itself out.”

Shaking his head, Rick practically nuzzles in against Cliff’s neck, and Cliff just stands there, letting him do it. “Sometimes I really do think I ought just go back to Missouri.”

“Come on, now. You’re Rick fucking Dalton. Hollywood would fall apart without you.”

Rick laughs at that, lifts his head up and starts to smile, just barely. “You gotta say that while I’m still paying you.”

“I told you I don’t give a shit if you pay me or not. It’s still true.”

Their faces are still just a little too close. Rick blinks up at him and Cliff could probably count his fucking eyelashes. It’s not like it’s the first time - but it’s the first time now, in this moment, the night after Cliff spent the night in Rick’s house where his wife was gonna sleep, and since he found out that Rick literally can’t get it up for a woman.

“Why do you stay? If it’s not for the money.” Rick asks, in a whisper so quiet Cliff can barely hear him over the rain.

“For you,” Cliff tells him. He doesn’t know what else he could say - it’s an easy answer.

Rick stares at him, again, for a moment, then he closes his eyes and shakes his head. “God dammit, you stupid son of a-”

Only then Rick cuts himself off because he kisses Cliff square on the mouth.

It should, by all accounts, be a terrible kiss. The angle’s all wrong, and Rick’s a little sloppy - Cliff’s mouth still doesn’t taste great cause he’s been all gross and doped up and he doesn’t have a toothbrush at Rick’s.

But still, Rick makes this panicked little noise like he might pull away, and Cliff reaches up, puts a hand on the back of his neck, and keeps him there, getting him at a better angle to kiss him properly.

Rick’s mouth is soft, and so is his skin, definitely freshly shaved when he woke up. He makes another little noise, and Cliff presses his thumb right at the hinge of Rick’s jaw in response. They still like that, kissing slow and soft and closed-mouthed for another minute or two, but then Rick finally reaches out and puts his hands on Cliff’s waist - and it’s like the fact that Cliff is already shirtless drives him crazy.

He pushes forward at the same time the kiss turns into teeth and tongue and passion, and Cliff hums even while he pushes his tongue against Rick’s and licks at the roof of his mouth - because nine years in and there he is, kissing Rick fucking Dalton.

Rick surges up again, one hand pushing up into Cliff’s hair, and it’d all be grand except Cliff’s hip knocks into the counter and he has to pull back and push Rick away just a little bit, just to get the weight off his wound.

“Shit, Cliff, I’m - I’m real sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

“That’d be a hell of a kiss for an accident, partner but - it’s just my hip. Knocked it on the counter there. Sorry.”

Cliff pushes his boxers down, just a hair, just enough to look at the stitches, and it looks like everything’s still in order. When he glances back up, he gets the pleasure of watching Rick bite his still kiss-swollen lip - and he grins.

“You doing alright there?” Cliff asks.

Rick looks up at Cliff’s face, then shakes his head with a grin. “Now you - you can fuck right off, Cliff Booth.”

“You know, that wasn’t the impression you just gave me a minute ago…”

“A minute ago I was - Clearly I was fucking crazy, c’mere you-”

They don’t last another minute before Rick’s pressed close again, his hands on Cliff’s shoulders this time, pulling him down and in for another kiss.

It’s possible they’d just stay there like that, standing in the kitchen and kissing for hours, if Brandy didn’t wake up and trot into the kitchen and start nudging at their legs.

They break apart with a laugh, and Cliff gets out the food to feed her, and Rick sort of hovers close to him the whole time, right at his elbow, close on either side, but never touching.

Finally when Brandy’s food is in the bowl, Cliff reaches out and pulls Rick close again, wrapping him up in his arms and then kissing at his temple. “You don’t have to ask for permission to touch me. It’s alright. I’ve wanted this for nine fucking years, I’m not just gonna up and stop.”

Rick startles at that, pulling back with his eyes all wide. “You were still married when we met.”

“Yeah, and Billie fucking knew - I mean, just, just about me, obviously. She never shut the fuck up about it. The whole thing died with her, so I couldn’t be as sorry about it as maybe I should have been.”

That brings a frown to Rick’s face. Slowly, carefully, he reaches up and brushes Cliff’s hair away from his forehead. “Well don’t - don’t worry about all that. You got me, and we got this place, and if I really do score that Polanski part, I’ll take you with me and we’ll have plenty of work for a while. The marriage is gonna - that oughta get people off my back for a little bit, and nobody’s ever gonna ask a goddamn question about you.”

“The unfortunate advantage of my situation, yes.”

Rick snorts at that. “I just can’t - I can’t believe. Nine fucking years.”

“Nine fucking years.” Cliff agrees, and he ducks his head to press another kiss to Rick’s mouth, lingering more than he needs to.

They only break it up again because Rick’s phone rings - and he pulls away slowly to go get it, patting at Cliff’s side as he goes.

He answers the phone perfunctorily at first, then lights up with a grin.

“Sharon! Well gosh it sure - it sure is nice to hear from you so early. What a lovely surprise. Y’all still doing all right up there?”

And then, just like that, they have to get dressed for a pool party in Sharon Tate’s backyard. And on the whole - things’ll probably be the same. Same Hollywood bullshit, same long car rides once Cliff’s back off the painkillers, same long days on set, same house, same TV nights.

Only now maybe sometimes they won’t be looking at the TV as much. And maybe Cliff won’t spend quite as many nights out in Van Nuys, not if Rick really wants to keep him around.

“I think - think I might see if Jay’ll cut my hair sometime soon if I ask him about while we’re over there. I’m real fucking tired of this hippie cut all of a sudden.”

Cliff laughs, scrubs his hand through Rick’s hair, and grins back at the answering smile. “Sounds like a good plan, partner.”

He leans in close, kisses Rick right at the corner of his eye, right at his crow’s feet, and then goes to get himself dressed. They’ve got places to be, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> i probably won't write anymore for this fandom but i am generally a tarantino-verse person and i've written some res dogs fics i could also probably someday be persuaded to post. in the mean time, i know this is a niche crowd, but if you read this i hope you enjoyed it and feel free to let me know if you did!
> 
> also if you just read this because you're a friend or a fan of my other stuff truly god bless you


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